Q: OK, I’m tweeps with some editors … do I contact them and say “Hey, I sent you a pitch…” or is that a version of e-stalking?

Nancy:

Q: How typical is it to get no response to pitches? Even after follow-up email? Has the culture and atmosphere changed that much?  It’s very disheartening to hear nothing, nothing at all, to a thoughtful pitch. 

Note:  My original answer here was lame and ill-considered. Mainly because I didn’t have a good feel for relationships with editors. (I don’t do much of that work, so I should have kept my mouth shut.) I advised giving an editor five days to respond to a query, then forgetting it.

Wrong.

Readers Rachel Kaufman and Hollee Chadwick called me on it, and had better answers.

Rachel:

By all means, pitch to multiple editors at once (just be careful to withdraw the pitch once it gets accepted elsewhere). But pitching once and then forgetting about it? Editors are busy, yes, but mostly they are forgetful. They mean to mention it but then something comes up. Or they’re researching your idea in the morgue file and get distracted by one of their stories from ten years ago. Or your pitch comes in at the wrong time of the month and they printed it out to bring to the next story planning meeting a week later, and then they lose the paper. Oh well–ideas are a dime a dozen. We didn’t *need* that one, because another one will come in tomorrow. Sometimes it’s not about having the best idea, just the best-timed one.

I have followed up on an idea with an editor 3-4 times because I *knew* the story was perfect for their publication…and I was right and landed the assignment. A friend of mine queried the same editor on the same idea (“Hey, any thoughts on this piece yet? I’d (still) love to write it for you (nine months after we first discussed this”) literally seven times and then landed a dream assignment.

Now, I might say seven times is a little overkill (though it worked for my friend), but one or two reminder emails? They work for me.

When I was an acquisitions editor, I had, on any given day, 100 or more manuscripts in piles everywhere. Yes, often it did take me 30 days to get back to an author. However, our guidelines informed the hopeful of this.

As a newspaper editor, for two newspapers simultaneously, I received so many pitches for articles, columns, cartoons even, that unless they really grabbed me, I did not have time to respond, as well as perform the other nine million tasks I had each week. If the author was persistent, it piqued my interest, because reporters, especially investigative, are supposed to be a pain in the butt.

Now as a freelance writer, I don’t look for a response with bated breath until 30 days out. That’s MY market though.

Much better perspectives from people who know what they’re talking about.

The bottom line is to persist. Which, if I had though about it, is precisely how I landed my best clients. I kept writing and calling and sending them stuff, until they gave in.

The trick, I think, is to ADD something to the contact each time. We’re not the six-year-old in the back seat, “Are we there yet?” Maybe a new thought, an idea, a few lines of lede?

But the part about thinking entreprenuerially, that still holds. A better model is to think, “I am a creator of world-class stories and content, which I supply to editors.”  Instead of a baby bird waiting to be fed, you’re more like a hawk looking for a score.

Well, something like that.

The original lame post is below.  But consider it superseded.

– original post —

A:  How about this:  Give them five days. Five business days.

Then you can rightly assume they don’t want the story or don’t like the idea.

Or that they only check email bi-monthly. In which case, they are not a likely market anyway. (I have a dusty copy of Writers Market on my bookshelf. It has listings from publications saying “We respond to queries in four to six weeks.” Ironically, most of those glacially-paced publications are now long defunct, bankrupt, and out of business. But I digress.)

Give them five business days. Then move on.

Approach nine other editors with that story idea. In fact, you should have approached nine editors with the pitch (tweaked for their publication) from day one.

Is that harsh? Is that against genteel protocol? Is that impatient and naive?

You editors out there, please set me straight. Explain the business case for sitting on a query for 10 days, or 30 days. Or explain why simultaneous querying is frowned upon and not ‘proper.’  Maybe I am wrong here. (We have all heard the trope ‘editors are busy.’ Yeah, but so are cabbies and cardiologists. What else is there?)

My take:  If you want to make a living in journalism, in writing for magazines, newsweeklies and similar publications, you have to take a more entrepreneurial approach. Longing for the gentility of the old days is no business model.

I’m thinking that editors have the damn hard job of filling so many pages/screens each week, each month. They are looking for good stuff.

That is where we can help. As suppliers of good stuff.

Stake out a territory, a subject matter, a turf. The Civil War. Weird science. Conventional wisdom turned on its head, odd crimes, interesting people in Wisconsin. Or you stake out a voice, a viewpoint. You create a persona. Bad boy, crusader, complainer, happy storyteller, inspirational reporter. Iconoclast. Being a non-descript generic with 14+ years experience gets you nowhere. You have to be someone.

Become the Malcolm Gladwell of your arena.  (If your editor received a query from Malcolm Gladwell tomorrow, would it take 3o days to respond? That is the kind of pull and reputation we should aim for.)

You are in the business of generating ideas and captivating content in your realm, the area that you own. You then market it to editors who are hungry for good content to fill their pages. (You are not waiting to get ‘picked.)

Maybe it requires generating 10 queries to get one conversation. Then that’s the business model. So generate lots of ideas. Query everyone. If they don’t respond, forget them and move on.

You have a million ideas you can work on.

—

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Q:  How should you dress for a first onsite meeting with a prospective client? Should you go super professional and wear a business suit like for a job interview? Or something swankier like for a business luncheon?

A:  Neither.

Go more casual.

They will think you more competent, more capable than if you showed up wearing some crisp business suit.

You are, of course, impeccably groomed. You are cleverly put together and freshly ironed and shiny clean. But you are casual. A tad distinctive, or irreverent even. A notch down in formality from the ‘business person’ look. Or two notches down.

That’s especially important for us in the ‘creative’ trades, we artisans, craftspeople, specialists, and market geniuses. Dressing too “up” can hurt us.

My pet theory:  If you show up too Wall Streety and CEO-like, clients subconsciously see you as a ‘front’ for the people who actually do the work, who do the hard thinking.

Think of it. Who arrives in suits? The sales rep who is only fronting for the factory, team, or organization that actually does the work. So does the lawyer who is the spokesperson for someone else. So does the guy from the government. The VP, fronting for the company that actually does the work.  The Account Executive from the ad agency, the ‘contact point’ for the people who do the work. The person sent ahead with the slick presentation and line of bullshit to sign you up.

Dressing up fancy is about power, status.We as freelancers are not about that. Geniuses and artists don’t wear suits. For us, dressing ‘professional’ is dressing how we work.

(Okay, maybe not literally. Leave the bathrobe at home, along with the grass-stained, knee-torn jeans, and the hoodie with the Kung Po chicken on the sleeve.) But what we wear to a meeting or presentation should reflect what we might be wearing while translating, writing, conceiving, designing, illustration, coding. Who ever created a damn useful thing wearing a tie, ever?

Notice these videos from the TED conferences. Here are some of the smartest, most creative people on the planet, talking to the most curious and discerning people there are. No suits anywhere.

Note too, that what you wear can become your trademark, your distinction, your claim to fame. (Do not say ‘branding’. That only involves red-hot irons and burning flesh.)

Think of Apple’s Steve Jobs in his iconic turtleneck and jeans. Writer Tom Wolfe in his white linen suit. Maybe it’s your glasses. Your shoes. But it should be natural. Don’t try to concoct this.

Here is the optimum dynamic. You show up eager and smart. Dressed ‘down’ on the formality scale, as if you might have just stepped away from the keyboard, the drawing table, the easel.

Maybe, just maybe (if they are idiots) the client will think, “Harrumph. The denim is improper.”

But then you start talking. You make sense. You are on their side. You have been thinking hard about what they need, what to make for them. You are laser-focused on what they want.

They think, somewhat surprised, “Hey, she’s pretty good. For someone in denim.” You are a notch above the person wearing a suit.

Of course, you are freelance, you are independent. You are not bound by any dress code at all.

You can wear what you want, no matter what some authoritative and insightful and engaging blogger with a uniquely fresh take on freelancing has to say.

Wear what you want, wear what you are. And quit thinking about it.

They will like you more.

—

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About fees, pesky clients, grand and weighty issues, irritating things that keep coming up. Strategies or tactics.

The last set of  Q and A seemed to be among the most-read posts. I’m guessing there are a lot of freelancers wondering about the same things you are.  Money, finding work, keeping happy.

Ask all day Friday. (If it is no longer Friday where you are, ask anyway.)

Get the answers Monday, with the usual Freelancery viewpoint. If I don’t have an answer, I’ll find one, or fake one.

Ask in the comments below. Or email me.

We can keep your name out of it if you wish.

Have you been thinking about changing your pricing structure?

Or maybe thinking about adding some new service?

Good. Think for another 24 or 28 hours.

Then quit thinking about it. Just quit it.

Instead, build the web page where you describe the new service. Go do it. Put it there in real-life pixels. Tell a customer about it.

See how it looks when you lay it out there. (You should have a web site built on WordPress or Typepad.com or maybe Squarespace.com that lets you update your website in like four minutes.)

Or, create the email where you explain the new pricing to a client. Write it, sentence by sentence. What does it look like? How does it sound? Is it confusing? Does it feel like the best thing since $2.99? Or does it now look lame in black and white?

Just by trying to do it, you now know much more than you did before. You know 43 times more than if you had just fantasized and daydreamed and debated about it. (Which I can do endlessly.)

Trying to make it changes everything. Trying it makes it real.

Your muses, or your subconscious now flock to your aid. You have defined the problem.  You have banged your head against the issue in the real world. You have tried to draw, to type, to design, to shoot. You are six miles ahead of the daydreamer.

Now the interesting stuff can happen. The muses rub their hands and say “Okay, what can we do with this?”

Work first, think later

Recently, during a long drive, I came up with two of the most killer blog posts ever. As the miles passed, the lines and passages flowed into my head. Both posts were brilliant. The more I played them out in my mind, the better they got. These babies would go viral. I was giddy.

But when I got back to the keyboard, these ‘brilliant’ posts weren’t there. Couldn’t write them. They were fantasy posts. Daydream posts. They were cotton candy. They weren’t real.

I learned my lesson. What counts is what you can put on the page. What you say to the client. What you deliver to the client. What you can sell to the client. That imaginary novel in your head? That brilliant new website you’ve been picturing since 2008?      Just idle thoughts.

Nothing counts until you actually make the damn thing. Or at least try to make the damn thing.

So let’s start there. From now on.

Here’s the new rule.

We are freelance. We get to decide. We do not have to write up some bullshit plan to convince a boss. Some spreadsheet or strategy document. We are in charge here.

We can try it. Right now, this afternoon.

Maybe it’s a better way to do a job. Or a new thing we can talk about to clients.

Start doing it.

If it sucks, if it’s lame, so what? Try again. Nobody is keeping score.

Start building it. Start making it.  Try it.

Thinking about it doesn’t count.

—

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Write your quote without saying “my fee is” or “I charge” or “I require” or “my hourly rate is.”

Leave out words like cost, pay, payment, check or money.

Use the word I no more than three times.

Your quote is not about what you want, what you demand, what your fee is, what your policy is, how much you want, when you get paid.

(That is precisely what we’re thinking about, of course. But we are pros here. We keep our greed tucked in, out of sight.)

Oh, and leave your old anger and frustrations out of it. It only makes clients suspicious of you.

The quote is about what they get.

It’s about them and what they want, how things will look from their end.

“The budget for the new web content would involve $XXXX, which will cover all the product descriptions we spoke about, as well as the application stories you’re looking for. You can plan on having the finished content in XX days.”

“You could handle the logo re-design and the new stationery for about $XXXX, and have it all buttoned up within 30 days or so. You will receive hi-res originals of all the artwork to use for any other applications that come up.”

“It would involve between $XXXX and $XXXX for the on-site shoot, or even less if the conference doesn’t run as long as you’re anticipating. ”

“For the four documents we discussed, you could have full French translations for $XXXX. That would include your custom glossary, and proofreading by a French specialist.”

“The chapter illustrations — in the style we agreed on — would entail xx to xx hours at an hourly rate of $XXX. You will always get to approve rough sketches before we launch into the finals. Naturally, you will receive the paper originals, plus hi-res digital masters in whatever format you need.”

“Half the project budget will be invoiced when your work gets underway, with the remaining amount invoiced when you have the final designs.”

“As soon as the initial $XXXX invoice is taken care of, you’ll have your shoot day booked. You can settle the remaining amount can be settled on the shoot day itself. ”

“The paperwork is pretty simple.  There’s an invoice for one-third of the budget when we start.  The second third won’t be billed until you have all the modules for review. The rest is billed when you have all the finals on your desk and ready to go.”

—

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Is there some part of this life that you dread, that you avoid like poison ivy?

Something that you know you should be doing much better or more often? Something you suck at?

Yeah, me too. I have a bunch of those.

My advice: Forget those parts for now.

Quit stewing about them. Quit promising yourself to ‘work on your weak points.’ Quit the guilt.

Even if you are ‘slightly below average’ in those departments, you will be okay. (Just so you aren’t catastrophically inept.)

Instead, shift your attention. (This is where you can leap ahead. And have much more fun. We are renegade freelancers here. We get to decide, not some boss.)

Think about what you do effortlessly and naturally well. Without even trying.

What part of your work is so ridiculously easy that you wonder why everyone can’t do it?  (Even if it seems trivial or unimportant.)

What tasks can you perform while falling out of bed, with a hangover, and one arm dead numb asleep?

Do you have an inborn, unexplained knack for something you have to do every day? Is there a part of your business that you look forward to? Some aspect of freelancing that you feel instinctively in your bones? Like you were born to do that? (Even if it’s not the sexy part, or the part that most people like.)

Good.

Here’s what to do. At dawn tomorrow.

Go hit that hard.

Lean on that. Savor that. Get even freakin’ better. 

Spend 97% of your emotional energy on practicing that, thinking about it, perfecting it. Getting unreachably, impossibly advanced in that realm. Devoting one extra hour to your thing will pay off ten times more than spending an hour on some supposed ‘weak point’, something you already hate.

Leverage the hell out of what you accidentally or naturally or unknowingly do well. Or what you are fascinated by, drawn to, or obsessed about beyond all reason.

You are already, by luck, by nature, by preference, 100 meters ahead.

Now capitalize on that. Get a kilometer ahead. Ten kilometers.

They will never catch up. Because for you, it’s like running downhill.

I’m thinking of all the freelancers and independents I know. And the people I see doing enviable things out there. (Even in obscure crafts.)

All of them are riding high and happy on the One Big Thing that they do better than anyone in their business, their trade.

Not just 2x better. But 10x better.

Maybe they are natural-born networkers. (They have more clients than they can handle.) Maybe they are the best in the world at some arcane or ‘impossible’ aspect of their craft. (Translating legal contracts from French to German. Medical animations and illustrating. Articles on psychology.) Maybe all they do is brand identities, databases. Maybe they are irritating detail freaks who  live to make lists and schedules. (Who end up project-managing impossible IT implementations. For huge dollars.)

Start with what you’re good at. Then get better. Skip the rest, for now.

You will have an unfair advantage.

—

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You know, the client who thinks translating is just typing, except in another language.

The one who asks, “Why does it cost so much just to draw up a logo, write up some verbage* for the home page?”

The ones who want you to churn out the same dreck and drivel they have now. The ones who don’t see why good design even matters.

There were weeks when it seemed like everyone I talked to was clueless. “Can’t you just dash off something real quick? Use a template or something? Just slap in some buzzwords?”

For a long time, I fretted over people like that. (Geez, have I chosen a profession, a craft that no one cares about? Am I doomed?)

Or I’d get angry, arrogant. (Save me. I am an artisan selling to a world of dolts.)

Or I would expend all sorts of energy trying to make them see the light. To change their minds.

I larded up my web site with stuff about the value of good copywriting, befores and afters, stats, quotes from famous people. I tried detailing my ‘process’ just to show what went into ‘good’ work. I listed crap like, “Assess current positioning, research competing products/companies, devise messaging strategy, outline key points.”  

I was thinking, like a dope, that I could make clients touch finger to chin and think, “Ah, now I see. I will indeed pay.” (I remember there is still a silly self-justifying passage on my website right now. Gotta kill that.)

Once, I even experimented with exhaustively itemized invoices: “Stare at screen. Write four lousy headlines. Chew pencil. Pace sixteen laps. Delete four headlines, write six more. Bang head on wall. Write last paragraph. Edit last paragraph. . .” 

Nothing worked. They remained unconvinced, unpersuaded. Eternal philistines.

Then one morning I get it.

And it liberates me. It changes the way I do business.

I realize I am a client like that. Me.

(I’m guessing you are a client like that, too.)

Early one Wednesday, my water heater gives out. There is rust-colored water all over the basement. Upstairs three daughters are shrieking in ice-cold showers.

My plumber shows up. He wants me to install this ultra-green, internet-enabled, wireless capable, all-digital water-temperature-management ‘system’ with gold plated something and automated vacation sensors and high-def screen, all for a price that makes my eyes pop.

“Whoa,” I say. “Just give me one just like I had, only not leaking.”

He flips through a brochure with graphs and cutaway views of the platinum-enriched insulation. There are charts showing how I could save $14,000 in energy costs in 73 years.

“Nah,” I say, “just give me a plain one, like the one I had.”

I simply don’t care. No amount of fancy flip-charts or scolding about the tender earth, or blather about precision temperature management will sway me. I am not listening, don’t care. Never will care.

All I want is hot water, and the shrieking upstairs to stop.

My plumber, no doubt, goes online that night. “These homeowners just don’t get it. All they want is cheap ’50s technology that is inefficient and prone to failure. Shortsighted and wasteful. They are clueless. How do I convince them?”

I realize I have been that client to my auto mechanic, my insurance guy, and the gutter cleaner. There are some things, many things, I don’t care enough about.

But for that ceramic Victorinox chef’s knife, that brittle and fragile thing that can shave a roast thin enough to see through?  The one that costs $199? The one you have to wrap in fleece and store in a drawer away from all other cutlery? For that, I’m a customer.

So what’s the best way to win over those clients who don’t quite understand?

You don’t.

Let them go.

Don’t spend time trying to change minds. You will exhaust yourself. And you won’t change minds.

(If you can find a way to accommodate these non-customers now and then, in a slow week, just to make a few dollars, go ahead. But don’t frazzle yourself.)

I know this is scary. You’re thinking I have just narrowed down your universe from 25,000 potential customers to 2,500. Or 25.

But there is no mass-market model for what we do, anyway. You can build a career on ten true fans.

Save your energy, save your hunting time for the ones who get it. The pro buyers, those who depend on what you do.

The others?

Pass.

—

* Actually, for the philistines out there, the real word is not verbage, but verbiage. And even then, the idea is wrong. As if text were simply scooped from a bin like birdseed. But that’s just the writer in me talking.

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Q: Is there a standard rate or range to charge for corporate/business/public relations blogging as a freelancer?

A:  I don’t have exhaustive nationwide data here. But based on what I and my cohorts have been offered, the rate for blog posts is pretty low. Maybe a notch below PR releases. I’m guessing that big corporations will pay somewhere around $250 for a substantial post. Smaller companies around $100 or even $50.

The problem is, they see this as some ‘stuff they have to do.’  It’s not core, it’s not critical, it’s not make or break. It’s some tangential, low-priority thing. They don’t really care. Ergo, they don’t really pay.

Of course, there’s always an opportunity to break out of the pack here. To break the mold.  To take the usual snoozy, boring corporate blog and make it get a jillion hits. But most corporations will never want to  be edgy or controversial enough to pull that off, as far as I can tell. Though I am occasionally wrong.

Prabu R.

Q:  How do I neatly transition to freelancing at the place I work?  Do I tell my boss that I’m freelancing on the side? Or should I neatly structure it so that my full-time and freelancing projects don’t clash?

A:  Here’s the General Rule of Smart and Discreet Freelancing.

If you are working on the ‘side’, and you are not in conflict with, or stealing business from your main employer, keep it to yourself.

When your freelance work starts to pay more than your day job, you have options.

In your case, you can tell your employer, “Here’s an idea. Instead of paying me full-time, would it make more sense to pay me on a freelance basis, only when you need me? It may actually save you some money.”

Ralph Hirtler

Q: If you had to pick one “you must do this to succeed” and one “avoid this resource waster or else” and impart that wisdom to newbies such as myself, what would they be?

A: Oddly enough, we debated this over beers the other night. The concensus was clear.

Your fortunes are directly tied to how many of the top buyers in your field (editors, creative directors, marketing managers) know you, and think you are swell.

Spend your days getting to know the people who buy a lot of what you do. Everything else, at this point, is secondary.

Making the leap

From Kim:

Q: As far as freelancing goes, how did you decide to make the leap into being your own boss? What was your first project?

A: Gee, I wish I had this neat story about how I weighed the pros and cons of going independent. Of how I sat there in the park one lunch hour, and pounded fist to palm saying, “By golly, I’m going to do it”. And how I stayed up that night drawing up plans on a pad.

But the fact is, it was much more childish, much more impulsive. It wasn’t about logic or reason. I was simply so miserable in my official ‘job’ that I couldn’t think of anything but getting out. I chafed and itched all day long. I looked for any excuse, any rationale at all. No matter how thin.

I would sit there in ‘meetings’ dying to leap onto the table shouting “Who cares?” Or I would listen to my boss outline a project for the next three months, all the while wanting to hurl myself out the window.

For me, and the freelancers I know, there wasn’t much choice. The scales were way out of balance. The pain of the cubicle was greater than the fear of going it alone. If you’re comfortable in your job, you won’t leave.

My first assignment: Writing an ad for a collapsible car antenna for a CB radio. $56.

Second job, brochure for oil refiner’s directory. Probably $200 or so.

If you’re more rational and sensible than most, do freelance jobs nights and weekends. When that makes more money than your day job, quit.

But you still have to be a little crazy, nevertheless.

What to do first

Karen Allyn

Q: How do I get started? Personal essays, magazine articles. I am a broadcast journo.
I suddenly don’t know how to get going.

A: Irritatingly simple advice:  Figure out who the big buyers are. The editors who buy your kind of stuff. Send them article ideas. They will mostly turn you down. Don’t give up. Come up with more ideas. Send them.

Meanwhile start a blog or website. Post the kind of personal essays you’d like to do. Write some. Do some magazine articles of the type you’d like to do. You are in charge here. You can do anything you want. Interview strippers or metallurgists or do a feature on left-handed violinists. Keep sending article ideas to the editors you have found.

And keep putting pieces online, on your site. Make them really good.

Then tell us how you’re doing.

Tech writing

Hollee J. Chadwick

Q:  For a while now, it seems that most of the writing gigs available are for technical writing. How do I break into the technical writing field? Is it possible without having a degree in a particular field?
Question two: What do you think is the fastest growing freelance writing field right now?

A:   The term ‘tech writing’ covers a lot of ground. At the ugly end of the spectrum is writing technical manuals and user guides. These are fat documents that explain how to administer a bank’s transaction management system, or the mobile tracking system for a trucking company. Don’t go near these. They are painfully detailed and dull. You will want to put your eyes out. The money is lousy, too.

You are better off at the marketing end. Where you’re writing the web sites, papers, and marketing pieces that help companies sell their technical products. Like Juniper Networks, or IBM, or Sprint, or Cisco.  They are good for writers only because to sell their gear, it takes a lot of writing. For web sites, presentations, literature, webinars, and the like. It’s content-heavy, as the say.  As opposed to selling chewing gum or beer.

They don’t care about degrees or special education. They won’t ask. But the hard part is, on job boards, the first question always is, ‘What work have you done in this field?” It’s the chicken-egg thing.

Me, I stumbled into tech because I was the only guy for twenty miles dogged enough to digest a stack of briefing material as thick as a deli sandwich. I am not particularly smart, I don’t love technology. But once you figure out what the hell ‘virtualized server environments’ are, you are one up on your competition. And they keep calling.

This is not a good answer. Your best bet is to just say you can do tech marketing. Then figure it out later. I always have to Google things to pretend I know what I’m talking about.

Fastest growing freelance writing field?

Buzz-wise it’s probably social media stuff. But I think there’s little money there. The money is always in writing things that can sell goods and services. Marketers always pay more. The producers of hit TV shows pay even more. But the gigs are impossible to get.

Smaller numbers sell better

Elaine

Q: I seem to keep coming up against a 1000 ($£€) ceiling. If my quote comes to less than four figures, I usually get the work, but in the past few weeks I’ve quoted for three big jobs without success. How do I phrase my quotes to convince customers that I’m worth the money? I do translating/editing.

 A:  I hear you. There may be some psychological barrier to four-figure jobs in the translation business. Or it may seem that quotes that hover around 1000 seem ‘high’ for some reason. Or could it be that you somehow flinch or get defensive when quoting high?  (My voice used to clench when saying big numbers. I think clients could hear it. But I digress.)

Two things to try:

Could you frame your quotes around smaller numbers?  ”This would involve about 200 per 500 words. The rate would be 50 per page, or X per word.  Or 85 per section. 102 per chapter. The work could be delivered in XX days.”

Don’t do the calculation for them.  It’s why they sell petrol per liter, not per tank, not per auto.

Or, if you need to quote final numbers, go WAY over 1000.  To 1184. Or 1277. Leap past the 1000 mark. Make the numbers sound more rational, more reasoned and calculated.

How to convince customers you are worth the money?  No magic phrase will do that.

Your negotiation starts from the moment you answer the phone, from your very first email.

Respond promptly.  Listen more than you talk. Appear interested and eager. Be distinctive and memorable. Be more confident than the other translators. Put them at ease. Be an ally. The other guys are just translators. You are a partner. You are a master.

CRM and invoicing tools

Stephen Smith

Q: What kind of CRM/bookkeeping/invoicing applications do you use? My freelance biz is starting to scale and I need a more robust solution.

A:  In CRM and invoicing, I am hopelessly minimalist. I have a relatively small core of clients and contacts, which I maintain on Apple’s Contacts app.  Invoicing is by Bento, a consumer-grade database program for the Mac.

If you are scaling up, here’s what I recommend, based on what my freelance bretheren are doing.

Go web-based, rather than hold everything locally on your own machine. I know that’s scary at first. But it’s probably way safer than having your life on your own hard drive.

For CRM, use Highrise, from 37 Signals. For invoicing and bookkeeping, Freshbooks.

Both will scale seamlessly, and don’t require much of a learning curve. And you can always download your data if you’re nervous.

Semper Paratus

From Molly Blake:

Q: I’m going to ASJA next weekend in New York. It’s my first big writing/journalism conference and I’m going alone. Totally alone. What do I bring? Should I have copies of my clips?

A:  I’m guessing there will be 100 writers for every editor (buyer) at the conference. But bring your clips anyway.

Chicago Sun-Times columnist and freelancer Andy Ihnatko says he landed his first major gigs because he ‘happened’ to have clips on hand when he ‘happened’ to bump into a tech editor.

Have some clips on paper and in pdf. (“If you give me a business card, I’ll email some clips to you this evening.”)

Dream up some cleverly memorable answers to “So what do you do?”  One sentence each. Practice saying them aloud (when no one’s around) so you won’t flub under pressure. Which I tend to do.

Then practice asking “And what do you do?” That will get other writers to divulge their secrets, give you their editorial contacts. Ask their advice. Most will go on, and on. Sort of like I’m doing here.

Every time you talk to someone, hand them one of those custom buttons you had made up. The ones that say “I met Molly Blake.” On the last day of the conference you wear a big button that says  “I am Molly Blake.”

By the way, on Friday, Freelancery reader Kelly James-Enger is moderating a panel discussion on freelancing at the NY Conference. Attend. Then meet her afterward. She knows 186% more about your line of work than I do.

Burnout? Fatigue? Something else?

Pamela Toler:

Q: Once you’ve finished a big project, how do you shift gears?

Kelly James-Enger

Q: Do you ever experience burnout, and if so, how do you handle it?  I’ve been a full-time freelancer for 15+ years, and this is comes up several times a year, minimum.

A:  A grey-bearded veteran once told me, “When the work turns to crap, take a break for a day or two. If you’re then ready to work again, you were just tired. If the time off makes it worse, you’re burned out.”

Fatigue is easily fixed. You have simply emptied the tanks and drained the batteries in worthy labor.

To me, it’s a pleasant, satisfied feeling. I’m covered in wood chips and sawdust. The firewood is all cut, split and neatly stacked. The work is done and out the door. Clients are happy. I pour a beverage and tally up the week’s wages. It’s a good kind of tired.

Now, you can spend three days doing blissfully nothing. Let the well fill up again on its own.

Or, you could blow out the pipes by launching into something utterly different for a few days. Do a 180-degree spin on what you normally do. Write jokes. Draw with a sharpie. After finishing The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway wrote the goofy and stupid Torrents of Spring in ten days just to “cool out,” as he said.

If you must move into a new project right away, try changing things up. Trick your brain into rebooting the circuits. Make your desk face the other way. Or try working standing up. Or at Starbucks. Or with pen and ink like Charles Dickens. Start listening to music when you work. Or stop listening to music.

While writing Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton ate nothing by egg salad sandwiches for lunch. When he started the next book, he switched sandwiches. New lunch, fresh start, new adventure.

But burnout is a whole different beast. Burnout is misery.

Burnout is an ugly kind of tired. It’s fatigue laced with frustration, futility, discouragement. You end the day a dried husk, but still feeling you should have done more. You don’t want to go back tomorrow. You hate the work, hate the client, hate yourself. You hate the keyboard, hate the mouse.

I’ve been through five or six burnouts. You can still see the soot stains on the rafters above my desk. My freelance friends have been through them, too.

Burnout, as I’ve felt it, comes from working on a project you can’t stand, for clients you can’t please, involving stuff you really don’t care about. For a long time, under pressure of time and money. With no recognition, no appreciation. There is no satisfaction anywhere in what you’re doing. That is the recipe for burnout.

Here’s an embarrassing story. (This is just between you and me, of course. Don’t let this get around.)

A big client wanted to put together this huge book, this compendium of happy customer stories. (Stupid idea, but I didn’t say.) I had to write dozens of these mini stories, scores of them. All in the same format, same word count, same structure. So many lines, so many subheads. They all had to sound the same, but different. I hated the idea, but  the money was good. So I shut up and did it.

I did ten of them, then twenty. The client started to complain. Too this, too that. I did them over again. I cranked them out. Many came back. I tried to fix them. They got worse. Client got mad. Every day was hell, cranking out these stupid things that came back for fixes.

Finally, I couldn’t take it. I told the client, “I can’t do these. I don’t know what you want. Each one is worse than the last.” My stomach was in knots. I wanted them to find another guy. I wanted out from this Hindenburg of a project.

The client called me, all scared.  ”Whoa, wait. Let’s talk. You’re doing great on these things. We don’t have anyone else. What can we do?”

All of a sudden, my ‘burnout’ was over. All of a sudden, I could do this again. Holy crap. I realized I wasn’t looking to get out of the project. I was just looking for some reason to hang on. Some half-baked, half-assed appreciation was enough to keep me going.

Don’t let this get around, though.

Here’s the rule. To avoid burnout:

There are only three possible reasons for saying ‘yes’ to a freelance assignment.

• You’re making a good pile of money.
• You’ll have a lot of fun doing it.
• People really love what you do.

None of the above?

Pass.

Grin and bear it. For now.

Sally Greene, Writer/Editor:

Q:  I need to fire a client. She’s rude, makes unreasonable demands (ten thousand words by dawn without a rush fee?  Really?), fails to convey crucial project information. She’s a drain on my energy.  But she owes me a decent chunk of money. What’s the best way to go about getting my money and getting this person out of my life without burning bridges or coming off as unprofessional?  I want to take the high road.

A: Yeah, the money changes everything.

It would be sweetly satisfying to simply cut loose from this she-devil. (Which is what the nine-year-old in me always wants to do.)

Trouble is, you would end up as just another bill collector yelling from outside the gates, with zero leverage. And if she’s insulted by your resigning her — which happens —  you may wait forever to get paid.

Try this first. Work from inside the gates for now.

Ms. Harridan:

I’m a bit puzzled about some back invoices that haven’t been taken care of. The company is usually so good about such things.  (Yeah, even if they aren’t. We are finessing here.)

Is there a glitch somewhere?

Or perhaps things are bit tight right now?  Would it be helpful if we held off new work for the time being? I wouldn’t want to saddle you with additional bills at a bad time.

Please let me know what you’d like to do.

If that doesn’t loosen up some cash, wait until she brings up some new work.

Ms. Harridan:

I’d be happy to get this done for you, but I’m still concerned about the previous invoices. I would hate to get too behind here.

Perhaps we can take care of this in the next few days?

Or, if you’re feeling sparky:

Ms. Harridan:

The article you asked for is ready to go. I’ll gladly send it over once the previous invoices are paid.

Let me know.

The trick is to be firm, while still giving her an ‘out’, a modest way to pretend it’s not her fault. “Yeah, those pinheads in accounting botched it. I’ll straighten them out.” 

The day the check clears, tip her out of the boat.

Ms. Harridan:

Thanks for asking, but I think you’d be better off with another writer/editor sap.